


it's her home

by taelynhawker



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, allusions to past haylijah, gilijah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taelynhawker/pseuds/taelynhawker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elijah is with the vampires, he and Gia come together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's her home

Maybe they drank too much bourbon.

Was the bottle empty?

For a brief moment her eyes stray to the bar where the empty bottle rests on its side. But then his teeth graze her nipple through her thin tank top and she's gasping, back arching off the piano, feet stomping awkwardly down on the keys. It's worth more than she's made in her whole life but he hadn't hesitated to slide her ass onto the smooth surface and then climb up over her. He lets out a noise that's almost a chuckle and lifts his head to catch her mouth with his own, kissing her hungrily, roughly. His hand replaces his teeth, thumb dragging over her taught nipple, toying with the sensitive flesh until she's writhing and whining into the kiss. 

It's only then he pulls back, an arm around her back pulling her up with him. And he's oddly reverential of her shirt, carefully grasping the hem and pulling it over her head. He's considerably rougher in snapping the front of her bra and then impatiently pushing the straps down her shoulders, until he can toss it across the room. There's nothing subtle about what they're doing. Or where they're doing it. She can already imagine they'll end up in her bed or his, upstairs, while their clothes remains strewn about down here. Where Marcel will see them.

Maybe it's a territorial thing. Maybe it's something more. She doesn't care. It's been a week since Elijah came to stay with them and every day of training with him has left her burning, aching, _wet_. She hasn't wanted someone the way she wants him in a long time and she doesn't feel like denying herself this just because the politics might get messy. She thinks they're friends now, she's okay with it being friendship plus this.

"You're thinking entirely too much, darling," he growls into her ear, fangs sharp and dragging down her neck as he finally breaks their kiss. She's breathless, bare breasts heaving against his fine, soft, shirt. "Am I truly such a poor teacher?"

She laughs breathlessly at that, using his cockiness to get leverage, to roll them over and almost off the piano, so that she's balanced precariously in his lap, rocking down against the hardness she can feel through his pants. She wastes no time ripping his shirt open, nails dragging down his chest, admiring the lines of muscle. He's gorgeous, he's beautiful, really, and she wants to taste every inch of him. But later. Right now she's hot, impatient. She wants him inside of her, she wants to cum screaming his name. She _wants_.

"Who says you're the teacher right now?"

She barely gets the words out before he sits up, a hand on her ass pulling her in closer as he grinds up into her. Her head falls back on her neck and he grinds again, presses sloppy kisses and sharp bites to the length of her neck. She shivers, rocks with him, finds a rhythm and gets lost in it. She could cum just like this, if he just moved a little- he shifts and she gasps, moans, he moves one hand between them, works her jeans open and gets his fingers into her panties. It doesn't take much, warm fingertip against her clit and the way he's moving underneath her. She shudders, moans something that might be his name, and cums on his fingertips.

She's never had an orgasm that fast.

"I'm always the teacher," he says, and lets his fangs pierce her skin as she's still coming down from her orgasm.

She holds tight to his shoulders, fingernails biting into his skin as he feeds from her for just a moment. Just enough for her to feel how intimate it is. And then he's kissing her again and she can taste her own blood on his tongue and she sucks it between her lips. He moves them, gets them on her feet, though her own are unsteady. And they work together to get their pants off and pushed down. She barely has time to let her eyes look him over before he's lifting her, sliding her back onto the piano. She gasps at the cold against her skin but spreads her legs willingly when he climbs up between her thighs. His hand reaches out to push her hair back and their eyes meet. They both go still and that's the moment she knows, is sure, this is the start of something. She doesn't know what, but it's something. It could be real. It's also the moment she realizes he's still mourning. But that's okay, too. She's okay with that.

She cups the side of his face and his own fingers run lovingly down her neck, over the curve of her breast, to her hip. They trail over her thigh and lift one of her legs over his hip. She lifts her head, presses her lips to his with a sweetness they have not shared yet as he pushed inside of her, stretching her, filling her. She sighs against his lips and melts into him. When he starts to move for a moment she just lays there and _feels him_. And then she's moving with him, hips rolling, a hand in his hair tugging gently, the other trying to find purchase on his sweat slicked shoulder. She's shaking, body still keyed up from her last orgasm. He's slow at first and then more impatient, more needy. He moans her name and some part of her is relieved it wasn't someone else's. She tightens around him purposefully just to make him buck into her. She moans as it pushes him deeper and she begs him to do it again, a please he answers with a slow, deep thrust, followed by a sharp, fast one.

He doesn't have to reach between them now and he knows it. He's got the angle and the thrusts perfect, he knows exactly how to take her apart. And he does, fucks her until she's begging and the piano is slick beneath them and she's scratched his shoulders. Until she can look him in the eyes and not flush, because there's no shame or embarrassment or boundaries between them- even if it's just for this moment. And then she's cumming again, falling over the edge, moaning his name the way she'd wanted to. And he's kissing her as his back arches, his body going stiff over hers and he comes hard, filling her.

She grasps his hip when he goes to pull out, and he stops. He pushes up on one elbow and leans his forehead against hers. They're sharing breath, eyes on each other even though it's a little too close, lips brushing. It's his who kisses her sweetly this time, like she's something delicate. Not breakable... just... special. She smiles against his lips.

She finally falls back against the piano, hissing at the cold and his moves quickly, gets his arm around her and between her and the cold surface.

"We should take this upstairs," he says, moving inside of her so that she can feel him starting to harden again. And god, that stamina might kill her, but she can deal with that. "I can carry you," he offers, but without the cockiness of before.

"Make me cum again," she demands, rocking up into him, shuddering at the mess beneath them. "And then you can carry me."

He smiles, a challenge accepted.

Two orgasms later he does carry her. How she manages to hold onto him, she's not even sure. She half expects him to leave her there, but he stays, curls up around her, pulls her close. He kisses her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. He lets her doze and wakes her up as he slides back into her, his finger teasing her clit again so that she's halfway to orgasm before she's fully awake. He's there in the morning. Their clothes are downstairs. People are back now, from wherever they spent their night. Marcel is back. She doesn't care.

It's her home.


End file.
